Long Day's Journey into Night
by Nemo the Everbeing
Summary: There's a serial killer loose on the Enterprise, and only the boys in blue have any hope of stopping him. The problem is, suspicion is cast on Spock, and McCoy is left alone to stop a psychopath. Blood, peril, and psychic fireworks ensue.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: R

Summary: There's a serial killer loose on the Enterprise, and only the boys in blue have any hope of stopping him. The problem is, suspicion is cast on Spock, and McCoy is left alone to stop a psychopath. What can I say? I've been watching way too much Law and Order. Oh, and it's my Tenth Wave story answering the challenge: write a story that ends with the same line it begins with.

Author's Note: This baby is the second story in the "Impromptu Bondmates" series. I feel a little guilty about continuing that universe, but I also feel like there are more places to go there. The title is ripped off from Eugene O'Neill.

Historian's Note: Takes place roughly a month after "Impromptu Bondmates", and even has a character reference to "Aw, Hell". See "Impromptu" for full details on Spock and Len's bonding. This can, however, easily be read as a standalone.

Disclaimer: As I have said time and time again, I don't own any part of them. All I own is the kernel of idea that went into the creation of this story. Still, that kernel came from a universe and characters which aren't mine, so in the end I don't own anything.

Chapter 1

Spock was a being who thrived on logic. It was the core of his existence and the cement which kept him from falling apart. That having been said, there were moments when all logic deserted him.

He felt something wrong within himself. He was very a self-aware being, and the slightest abnormality in his self-perceptions or motivations was like a swift blow to the skull. The sensation he felt now was more like a sledge-hammer.

Spock wondered if he were dead, for he moved through the ship and no one saw him. Yet, the dead did not feel the smug sense of satisfaction he achieved by passing so many familiar faces unnoticed. True phantoms did not take pride in their own invisibility.

Not like Spock. He looked about him in disdainful triumph. It was right that these beings should not see him. They had no relevance, and should not approach one who did.

His walk turned to a prowl. Warrior ancestors called and whispered in his mind, telling him of a renounced heritage. It was easy, he realized, to return to that which he had abandoned. It was frighteningly easy, but Spock was in no way frightened.

It was then that Spock saw his quarry. Leonard had always seemed fragile to him. His limbs were made to be broken, and being bonded had allowed Spock to understand that the doctor himself agreed with this assessment. Leonard knew that he was weak and he feared that revelation more than anything. He blustered and shouted, puffing up his small frame to the best of his ability, merely to conceal the fact that, of the senior staff, he was the easiest target. He was prey.

It did not surprise Spock that, after his trek through anonymity, Leonard would recognize him. The doctor turned, momentarily startled by the silent approach. For a second, there was fear in the man's eyes. Then, there was anger to cover the fear. Then both faded and Spock's bondmate smiled.

And, without a word, Spock pulled out a knife and slit his throat.

Commander Spock of the Starship Enterprise sat up in bed and gasped, attempting to purge the image from his mind.

Beside him, his bondmate blinked in muzzy bewilderment. "Spock?" he asked, "what is it?"

"I . . ." Spock took a moment to steady his voice, "I believe I dreamed."

Leonard McCoy propped himself up on his elbows. "Is that an event?"

"In it of itself, I should say possibly. Given the subject material, definitely."

Leonard pushed himself the rest of the way to sitting and regarded Spock with concern, his cool hand landing on the Vulcan's arm. "Honey, you're shakin'," he stated. "What did you dream about that's got you so upset?"

Spock couldn't even say it. To speak it aloud was to acknowledge the dream's reality, when all he truly wanted to do was banish it into the farthest reaches of his mind.

The hand on his shoulder, though, negated that desire, easily seeing past Spock's tattered walls. The Vulcan attempted to warn McCoy, attempted to tell him that such things were as unprecedented in Spock's mind as they were in his bondmate's, but all he got out was a swift burst of completely illogical panic before Leonard knew everything.

His hand pulled back as though burned.

Spock looked to his bondmate to see fear in the man's eyes. Leonard was trying not to look at Spock as though he was diseased, but he met with only marginal success. "That's one unpleasant dream," Leonard said, his tone tight.

"I don't know what prompted it," Spock said, praying that Leonard would understand.

"Which is reassuring."

"And yet—"

"Doctor McCoy," the intercom in his quarters sounded, "emergency medical situation on deck fifteen."

They both looked up sharply and Leonard hissed, "Damn." He pulled himself out of bed and scrabbled about the room collecting his clothes. As he hopped about on one foot and then the other, pulling on his pants, Leonard said with attempted levity, "I guess it's good that we slept in my quarters tonight, huh?"

Spock rose from the bed, as well, retrieving the other shirt from the floor and noticing the stripes of a lieutenant commander on the sleeves. He approached his bondmate and grasped the other shirt.

For a moment, Leonard McCoy went absolutely tense, a sharp wave of terror communicating itself through the bond.

Spock halted all movement until Leonard had overcome his fear, and then exchanged the shirts and indicated the stripes.

His bondmate bit his lip and whispered, "I'm sorry. Guess that dream got to me a bit."

"It's understandable."

"No, it's not, but thanks for saying." He pulled on the correct shirt and tried to grin. "That would have been a way of coming out to the crew, wouldn't it? 'Hey, aren't you two wearin' the wrong uniform?' 'Oh, well, there's somethin' we've been meanin' to tell y'all . . .'"

"Leonard," Spock whispered, grasping his bondmate's hands between his own. I apologize for the dream, but you must calm yourself if you wish to be effective in your duty.

The doctor closed his eyes. I know, he thought. Weird moments, you know?

Spock bent down and pressed a brief kiss to Leonard's lips. I do, indeed.

For a second, they stared at each other, something floating between them unsaid.

And then the intercom beeped loudly, proclaiming, "Doctor McCoy, medical emergency—"

"I know!" Leonard snapped irritably. He turned, grabbed his medkit from the table, and dashed out of the room, Spock on his heels. The Vulcan did not know if his assistance would be required, but as long as the first officer, it was his duty to render aid where it was needed. Also, it seemed somehow inappropriate for him to linger in Leonard's quarters while the doctor was out.

It was a quick and efficient trip to deck fifteen, Leonard double-checking his supplies and Spock staring resolutely at the doors of the turbolift. When they reached their destination, they set a brisk pace down the hall.

They were met by Ensign Withers, the bridge-playing security officer. His young face was fighting to remain professional, but his shock and disgust kept winning out. He said, "Doctor, it's Lieutenant Wallace."

McCoy nodded and followed the security guard as they rushed to her. The brunette lay on the ground, a delicate tumble of bones and flesh. And blood. Amazing amounts of blood.

Spock stopped dead, images of his dream flashing through his head as he stared at the body on the floor. Wallace's throat had been slit from ear to ear. Leonard fell to his knees beside the woman, quickly grasping at her throat in an attempt to hold the ragged edges of skin together and stem the blood flow with one hand, while he attempted to dig through his medkit with the other. Spock could have told him that it was far too late for anything work short of divine intervention, but he couldn't actually find his voice to speak.

Jim Kirk rushed past him, having been called by Withers. The Ensign now stood by a wall, running a hand through his blonde hair and trying not to look ill. He did manage to simply look shocky, but it was not a vast improvement. Spock, from years of practice, simply looked impassive.

Even Kirk took a moment to stare at the body on the floor. Seeing such things on alien worlds was one thing. That was a danger of the job, and everyone knew that uncharted regions could be hazardous. You came to expect a certain price for exploration.

But things were different on the Enterprise. This ship was their home and their world, more so even than their respective places of origin. This ship, above all else, had to be safe. It was a sanctuary. There may be power failures and electrical blasts occasionally, even alien takeovers, but the crew trusted that they were safe from one another.

And now there was a young woman lying on the floor with her throat slit.

Kirk's voice was icily neutral as he asked, "Who found her?"

"I did, Sir," Withers said, "about three minutes ago. I called for Doctor McCoy."

"Was there anyone else in or near the hall, Ensign?"

"No, Sir. I checked around, but there was no one, Sir, and I didn't want to go too far in case . . . in case she might need me." He sagged as he obviously realized how foolish that sounded, but Spock understood the human sentiment. The boy had not wished to leave the Lieutenant alone on the principle that he, himself, would not wish to be left alone as he died.

Kirk, apparently, also understood the unspoken message. "You did the right thing, Ensign," he assured Withers, thawing his tone enough to be reassuring. "You can go now. We'll handle things from here."

Withers looked up, his face ashen as he nodded. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Then, he walked away as quickly as he could without losing a sense of decorum.

As soon as he was gone, Kirk's face hardened again and he knelt next to Leonard. "How is she, Bones?" he asked.

Slowly, Leonard took his hands away from the woman's throat, and the flow of blood had all but stopped. All three officers now stood on carpet that was soaked red, and Spock was dimly certain that they would leave crimson footprints when they left. Withers certainly had. Spock wondered why the killer hadn't.

The doctor stared at the blood which coated his hands and arms and even spattered across his shirt. There was probably blood on his pants and boots, as well, soaked up from the carpet, but the black didn't reveal stains. "She's dead, Jim," he stated, attempting a dispassionate tone that didn't seem to come. "She was probably too far gone when Withers found her. By the time I got here, the best I could do was sit by and watch."

Kirk nodded and then stood, turning to Spock. "This sort of thing does not happen on my ship," he said. "We have to find out who did this before there's a panic."

Spock didn't respond, and Kirk's gaze sharpened. "Spock?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Jim," Spock finally managed, "I believe I dreamed this."


	2. 2

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Chapter 2

James T. Kirk stared at his two senior officers and sighed. They had retired to the captain's quarters to discuss Spock's startling revelation in a more private capacity, and now . . .

What do you do, he wondered, when your first officer and friend tells you that he knew that this was happening in his sleep?

Spock's dream had been vivid, but not necessarily connected. Jim would honestly prefer he not be connected. Still, Spock was a Vulcan, and that race didn't dream much. Even less common were dreams of a violent nature. To dream such a gruesome dream, at the exact moment when the same sequence of events played out elsewhere on the ship, well it was a huge coincidence. Jim believed in coincidence. He understood coincidence. But he damn well didn't trust coincidence.

"Spock," he said after a long moment, "can you account for your own whereabouts during the murder?" He hated asking, but he had to. There was too much evidence to simply presume Spock's innocence.

"I can," McCoy said. His eyes were steel, and sparked at Jim. "If he left the room, I'd wake up. It's happened enough times to know that."

"Are you absolutely sure?" Jim pressed.

"I . . ." Leonard bit his lip, unable to lie. The situation was far too serious. "I think so. When you share a bed, you're very close to one another, and there's a sort of . . . warmth in your head. The father apart you move, the colder it gets." The corner of his mouth kicked up slightly. "The first few times Spock spent the night, he tried to go back to his own quarters before the first shift. I woke up every time."

Spock shifted, obviously uncomfortable about discussing their private lives. Jim understood that especially. He was still a little bit confused by his friends' relationship. Not only the how's and what's of it, but the why.

He had to stick to the subject at hand, he reminded himself. There would be time for side-notes later. "Is it fool proof?" he asked.

McCoy scowled and glared at him. "Dammit, Jim, I don't know! We never tested it!"

Spock stared at Jim levelly, betraying no emotion. "Then we are unable to rule me out as a potential suspect."

Jim nodded, aghast. The thought that Spock, of all people, might be a murderer seemed impossible. No, his first officer certainly wasn't at the top of his list, and he intended to proceed with other avenues of investigation.

He told Spock and McCoy as much, and they both nodded, the doctor with relief and the science officer with fractional trepidation. "Alright," Jim said, "so if we assume you didn't kill Lieutenant Wallace, it was probably someone in telepathic contact with you. How many people aboard this ship qualify?"

Spock frowned. "You and Leonard."

"I take it the bond works both ways?"

"Yes," Spock said, "I would be aware if Leonard left."

"Theoretically," Jim sighed.

Spock nodded.

"No!" McCoy exclaimed suddenly, his eyes lighting up. The other two officers turned to him and he said, "Don't you see? Neither of us had blood on our clothes! Whoever killed Wallace got himself covered in blood. That sort of arterial incision sprays fast and hard. Even if we made like Lizzie Borden—"

"Lizzie Borden?" Jim asked, not following the reference.

"Lizzie Borden," McCoy explained. "Young lady way back when who offed her parents with an axe. The police found no bloody clothing, so the theory is that she did it without any on, and then just cleaned up afterwards."

"And neither of you could have done the same?" Jim asked, dubious.

"Jim, think! That girl had her carotid slit no more than two minutes before Withers found her, which is no more than three minutes before he called us. The time-frame just doesn't work!"

Jim let out a breath. "Good. I hated the thought of the two of you being suspects."

"Thank God for sleeping together, huh?" McCoy asked.

"Amen," Jim said.

Meanwhile, Spock was looking at McCoy with admiration. "Leonard," he said, "that was remarkably logical of you."

"What can I say?" McCoy offered. "It's an infectious disease contracted by bonding yourself to a green-blooded Vulcan. Side effects include nagging, headaches, occasional losses of any and all sense of balance, and the inability to eat red meat." He suddenly frowned. "Though, at the moment I have to say that the last side-effect is all right with me."

Kirk's mind suddenly stalled as it hit a snag. "Wait," he said. "What if one of you used a transporter to get you out of the hall? Spock, could you . . ."

The Vulcan nodded. "If I had prepared ahead of time, I would be able to tie into the transporter controls, scramble my destination appropriately, and clean myself in the allotted amount of time. I could probably even wipe the transporter memory, so there would be no record of any usage."

"Goddammit," McCoy said.

"I am still a suspect," Spock said. "However, Leonard is not. He does not have the technical knowledge or the ability to perform the necessary tasks." Spock actually looked mildly pleased, especially for a man who had just become a prime suspect in a murder investigation.

Jim said, "Even if it wasn't you, someone did slit Wallace's throat barely two minutes before Withers found her. If the killer didn't use the transporter, someone had to have seen something. A crewman doesn't just go walking the halls covered in blood without anyone noticing." He grimaced. "This is a starship! There's always someone on duty. We have to find out who that someone is, and what they know. Even the smallest clue could help."

"If anyone saw a crewmember walking around in bloody clothing, we'll hear about it by tomorrow," McCoy pointed out. Then, he looked back up at Spock. "Is there any way you could be telepathically connected to someone and not know it?"

"I would be inclined to say no. However, evidence indicates that I would be wrong in that assumption."

"Gentlemen," Kirk said, "we need to get to the bottom of this. I won't have my ship become a place in which people fear to live." He paused and breathed, trying to clear his head of all the dangers this sort of thing posed, "But I don't want this to be a witch-hunt, either. We need to be precise, thorough, quick, and above all, quiet. I don't want ship's functions disturbed any more than they're already going to be."

"Agreed," Spock said.

"Right there with you," Leonard seconded, "especially about the fast part."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. There had been some sort of subtext in what McCoy had said, he was sure of it. "Bones?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Jim, I can't say for certain until I do an autopsy," McCoy warned.

"Out with it, Bones. What do you know?"

"When I scanned her," McCoy said, his tone subdued and his face going pale, "there were signs of probable torture before she had her throat slit. I don't think that this was an impulsive act. Someone picked this girl. Probably stalked her, caught her, knew her shift well enough to hold her without having her miss any work and raise suspicion, and only after the sick bastard had played with her enough did he drag her out into a hallway and kill her." Frowning and crossing his arms, McCoy stated in no uncertain terms, "I don't want to toot my own horn, but I'm a damn fine psychologist. I can say for near-certain that whoever we're dealing with has done this before, and will do it again."

"You're saying we've got a serial killer on this ship."

McCoy didn't need to confirm the fact. Everyone knew he was right. As much as it killed Kirk to admit it, he knew that McCoy was right.


	3. 3

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Chapter 3

As inevitably happens, the news of Lieutenant Wallace's death spread throughout the ship despite the senior staff's best efforts to contain it. The Enterprise took on a tense air of fear and suspicion as coworkers began eyeing each other, wondering which of them might be a killer. Those people who belonged to Wallace's shift were especially worried, believing that they, too, might be targeted. The rumor that the doctor said there was a serial killer on board had already reached every ear by breakfast.

It was understandable, then, that when the senior officers assembled to discuss the event, they were accompanied by many dark circles under their eyes.

"How is it possible that no one saw anything?" Kirk demanded.

"The man would have to have a comprehensive knowledge of this ship, Captain," said Montgomery Scott. "Not to mention crew rotations and security assignments."

"Who would have such knowledge?" asked Nyota Uhura.

"I would," Spock.

"Among others," McCoy growled. "Right?"

"Theoretically, anyone capable of breaking into our scheduling rosters would have access to this knowledge," Spock said. "The ship's blueprints are, of course, non-restricted."

"Sair," Chekov said, looking abashed, "all the circumstantial evidence seems to point to . . . vell . . ."

"You want to finish that thought, Son?" McCoy asked, standing up.

Chekov blinked at him, and McCoy remembered that none of the crew but Kirk knew of his relationship with Spock. Sitting back down and crossing his arms over his chest, the doctor said, "I just don't think that we should jump to conclusions, especially about an officer who's proven himself time and time again to be a courageous and loyal man."

"I agree," Kirk put in. "We can't assume anyone is guilty without more concrete evidence. So, let's get some. Bones, you did the autopsy. Tell us what you've got."

McCoy scanned the grim faces surrounding him and said, "Aside from the obvious wound that killed that poor girl, there were signs of extensive and repeated torture more than likely inflicted with varied instruments, including blunt objects, something like a scalpel, and old-fashioned matches."

"How did you know they were—" Sulu started.

McCoy cut him off. "Because there were bits of sulfur in the burns where the perpetrator had dug the match into the skin."

Sulu closed his eyes and his lips tightened. He looked like he regretted the question.

McCoy continued, determined to get through this. "Psychologically, the torture implies a desire to dominate and force Wallace into an admission of inferiority. Maybe a jealous coworker or someone she turned down for a date. I couldn't tell you. The very public murder, though . . . whoever did this wants us to know. He, and I imply gender tentatively, wanted to send someone a message. Wanted to let someone know what he had done to this girl." He shrugged. "It's all speculation, of course, but it's the best I got."

"So, maybe the killing had nothing to do with the lass. Maybe it was about someone else," Scotty said.

McCoy shrugged. "I suppose it could be a love triangle, even an unconscious one." He shook his head. "What beats me all to hell is how someone like this even got aboard! You'd think the killer would have never gotten past Starfleet psych screenings." Carefully, he began to filter through the sorts of violent manias that could possibly go undetected by that sort of careful selection. "Even if he did get past Starfleet," the doctor murmured, "how the hell'd he get past me?"

The door opened suddenly, and Security Chief Giotto stepped in. He came to attention and said, "Request permission to report, Sir."

Kirk waved a hand, saying, "At ease."

Giotto relaxed and continued, "Sir, security has interviewed Lieutenant Wallace's colleagues, all of whom seem very positive about her. No one knew of any grudges or any romantic entanglements." He held out a pad. "This is a list of people you might want to interview yourself. Close friends and the like. I also included some notes that might help in the investigation."

"Thank you," Kirk told him, and Giotto turned smartly, leaving the room.

Kirk glanced over the notes and said, "Spock, it says here that you worked with this woman a few months ago."

Spock nodded. "She was a stellar cartographer, and I availed her assistance on the charting of the Hydra Anomaly, Captain. She was a competent officer."

McCoy's heart went out to his bondmate as he recognized a sincere attempt at a compliment, as least as much of one as Spock could deliver.

"It also says that you had dinner with her."

Spock nodded again. "On several occasions our research overlapped her assigned meal schedule. To maintain our train of thought, I accompanied her and we continued our research in the mess."

Kirk bit his lip. "I believe you, Spock, but a court . . ."

"I understand, Captain."

Kirk rose abruptly, and McCoy saw in his face the pain of having to accuse one's friend, however tentatively, of such a heinous act. "Let's start these interviews," Kirk said. "The sooner we work this, the sooner we can resolve it. Sulu, Bones, you're with me. Spock . . ." there was a noticeable moment as everyone realized that the first officer would not be allowed into the interrogations. His status as a suspect had been confirmed. "Spock," Kirk tried again, "you have the conn."

"Name and rank."

"Ensign Yasuhiro Murakami."

"Department."

"Stellar cartography."

Jim surveyed the young man who shifted quietly in his seat as Sulu questioned him. The helmsman retained a quiet air of professionalism, despite the fact that Ensign Murakami was the son of a friend of Sulu's father.

It was why he had asked Sulu to conduct the interrogation in the first place, and it was good to see that his confidence hadn't been misplaced.

"You knew Lieutenant Wallace?" Sulu asked.

Murakami nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Sulu smiled at him encouragingly. "Could you elaborate a little?"

Murakami paled. "She was my . . . that is to say . . . we used to see one another."

"I hear that she broke up with you."

"Yes, Sir. She thought that . . . she thought there was a better man available." He looked abashed. "I took it hard, Sir. I loved that girl, and she dumped me like old socks in the refuse chute the first better offer she got. I didn't kill her, though. And I certainly didn't do . . . anything else to her." Murakami's eyes shone with tears which he struggled to keep in check. Jim glanced at McCoy, who sat quietly in a corner, and the doctor shook his head.

"Thank you, Ensign," the captain said, rising. "We'll contact you if we need anything further."

Murakami rose, nodding. Despite his best efforts, tears were escaping his eyes and streaking down his cheeks. Saluting, he left with as much alacrity as could still be considered proper.

Once he was out of the room, McCoy said, "It's not him. Not unless he's so completely gone that even he doesn't know he did it."

"I don't see that happening, Sir," Sulu put in. "I grew up with Yasuhiro. I'd have noticed something by now."

Jim nodded to them both. "I'm inclined to agree with you, gentlemen. Let's continue."

At his signal, the door slid open to admit a slight, blonde woman with puffy eyes and badly reapplied mascara. She sat down in the seat offered her and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes.

Jim felt a stab of sympathy for the poor woman. "Are you Lieutenant Junior Grade Carol Stone?"

"Yes, Sir," she whispered.

"Can you tell us your relationship to Lieutenant Wallace?"

"Nancy and I were best friends. We used to share a room when we were first transferred here."

"You work her shift?" McCoy asked.

She blinked at the doctor, as if just realizing that he was there, and then said, "Yes. We arranged it so we could have meals and free time off together."

Jim resumed the questions. "What department were you in?"

"Computers, Sir. I repaired the stellar cartography equipment."

"Do you know if Nancy was seeing anyone when she was killed?"

Stone shook her head violently. "No. Absolutely not. She never would have dated without letting me know."

"Did she seem interested in anyone?"

Stone smiled sadly. "No one she could have."

"Run that by us again," McCoy said.

Carol shrugged. "Well, she had a bit of a crush, you might say, on Commander Spock. It was nothing that would have gone anywhere, you understand. It was just . . . well, you know how it is. Nancy always wanted what she couldn't have."

Jim nodded, knowing the type. There was more than one woman on the Enterprise who was in for a world of heartache when they found out that Mister Spock was no longer one of the eligible bachelors. Of course, it may well be that such women chose Spock specifically for that reason. To wish for the unattainable, and to know that you could never have it, meant that you could never truly have your heart broken.

He nodded to the tearful lieutenant and said woodenly, "Thank you for your time."

She rose and left the room, crying softly.

"And we're back to Spock again," Jim muttered.

"What if we've got this backwards," McCoy said. "What if the message the killer is sending is for Spock? What if the sick bastard thought Wallace and he really were seeing one another, and thought that her murder would affect him?"

"Bones," Jim said.

"Dammit, Jim, I know I'm grasping at straws, but I cannot, I cannot believe that Spock killed this girl. It's against everything I know about him." He took a breath. "Jim, Spock can be damn cold at times, but he would never do something like this. If he took to killing, God forbid, it wouldn't have been the production we saw in that hall. It would be cleaner, more efficient. He's not the type to go in for crimes of passion."

"I would have said so, too, but that dream . . ."

"I can't explain that one, Jim, except to say that he was as shaken by that dream as he has been by damn near anything in his life."

Jim nodded. "God, I hope you're right. This whole thing is a nightmare, no matter how you look at it."

"Sir," Sulu said. "We have one more person to interview." He politely ignored the fact that McCoy knew how Spock had reacted to a dream. Either it had passed over his head, or he was just discreet enough not to ask. Knowing the helmsman, it was probably a bit of both.

"Of course," Jim said, "Maurudan."

"He's a Neemurite, isn't he?" McCoy asked.

"Yes," Sulu said.

"Why do you ask?" Jim asked.

"Some Neemurites are telepaths, Jim," McCoy said.

"I thought that Maurudan tested negative."

"Well, it's easier to fake a psi test than it is to fake a phych test. I'm not saying this is our killer, I'm just saying that we should keep our eyes open."

"They've been open ever since I got the call last night," Jim said, and signaled the door.

Maurudan was a middle-aged humanoid, with a shock of silver hair and gray skin blackening with age. His ears orbited his head in agitated circles, and when he sat down, they stopped, both facing Jim and shivering in the air two inches off the top of the Neemurite's head.

"Are you Lieutenant Maurudan?" Jim asked politely.

Being that Neemurites had a head incapable of nodding, Maurudan's ears bobbed instead. "Yes, Sir," he said in a raspy, slow voice.

"You were Lieutenant Wallace's mentor?"

"For the first year or so, yes," Maurudan confirmed, "but she swiftly ceased to be a student and became an equal. She was naturally gifted."

"Did the two of you remain friends?" Sulu asked.

Maurudan's eyes turned to Sulu, even as his ears moved to face the helmsman. "We were not intimate, if that is what you imply. Nor did we spend our free time together. We are a generation and worlds apart. She spent her time with the younger crew members; I spent my time with the stars. Still, she was nothing if not amiable. She never failed to greet me."

"Lieutenant Maurudan," McCoy asked, "do you have psychic abilities?"

If the Neemurite were surprised by the question, he didn't show it. The ears waggled. "No. I am not of the ancient houses. Mine is a younger branch, long lost to the psyonic arts."

"Would you be willing to take a psi evaluation to prove it?"

The ears bobbed once more. "Of course. Whatever I can do to help you discover the truth, I shall certainly do."

McCoy looked up at Jim, who nodded. The doctor and the Neemurite rose and moved to the door. It slid open silently, and they exited.

Jim watched them leave, and when they were out and the door had slid closed he turned to Sulu. "He's worried."

"Maurudan or McCoy?"

Jim snorted. "McCoy. Maurudan was completely calm. His ears weren't even wavering."

"Can you blame him, Captain?" Sulu asked, carefully plying the computer to store the data gleaned from the interviews.

"Maurudan or McCoy?" Kirk asked, repeating his helmsman's former question, trying for a feeble joke.

Dark eyes rose to regard the captain, and Sulu said, "McCoy. He may not admit it, but Spock's his closest friend on the ship." Obviously realizing what he'd just said to whom, Sulu amended, "Present company excluded, of course." Apparently, he hadn't heard McCoy's revelation about Spock's dream, or had just passed it off as something a doctor would have been told.

Jim, who was the only man aside from the physician and the Vulcan who knew the extent of their 'friendship', and likely to stay that way for the time being, held up a hand. "No, Sulu, I'll admit when I'm beat. Spock and McCoy, strange as it seems, have more in common than I do with either of them."

"It's hitting him hard," the helmsman said.

Jim stared hard at the door. "It's hitting all of us hard."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

Jim nodded. "Of course."

"I don't want to believe Commander Spock is guilty, Sir," Sulu said in slow, deliberate tones, carefully crafting and pondering each word before it was spoken, "but if he is, what do we do? I hate to say this, but if Spock is truly that dangerous, then we're going to have a very hard time stopping him."

Jim closed his eyes. Sulu had voiced something he'd avoided thinking for some time. The captain was aware of Vulcan strength and agility more than most. Spock had almost killed him years ago, and only a diversion by McCoy had saved his life. Of all the dangerous entities in all the galaxy, only Spock could claim that honor. Jim was forcibly reminded of the adage: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. But what if someone was both, then where did you keep them? Could Spock possibly be an enemy? Could he have somehow hidden such a severe psychosis from both Jim and McCoy? Jim's heart, soul, and most of his mind screamed 'no', but the rational part of him, the part no doubt nurtured and encouraged by long hours spent with his first officer, said that anything was possible. And Spock had said it himself. He could have committed the crime. And he was the only man on the ship with means and motive.

"I don't know, Mister Sulu," he said. "I just don't know."


	4. 4

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Author's Notes: How many ways can one say "sleepwalking"? Read on . . .

Chapter 4

Spock let his head fall back and his eyes close for the merest second of honest emotion. Without sight, he could hear Leonard gasping softly and felt him collapse next to the Vulcan, only to wrap his arms around him tightly. Leonard was, it seemed, very physical that night.

"What did the psi scan reveal?" the Vulcan asked, carding his hand through Leonard's hair.

The human sighed. "He's either not psychic, or he hides it very well," McCoy said. "There's no way to be sure."

"So we are no further along than we were before," Spock concluded. "I am still the most logical suspect."

Leonard jerked up to meet Spock's eyes and glare fire. "Will you stop saying that? You are not a murderer."

"Certainly not consciously, but it's unknown what I may do in a hypnogogic state."

"What, sleepwalking?" Leonard demanded. "That's just . . . ludicrous. You're not some sort of psychotic somnambulist!"

Spock arched an eyebrow. "Putting aside that gross bit of alliteration, I fear that may well be what I am."

"You're not."

"Unfortunately, a court of law will not acquit a person merely because their lover says they did not murder anyone. Even if that person is the suspect's bondmate."

"I know with more certainty than I've ever known anything that you aren't a murderer." Leonard reached out and cupped his cheek. "I'm dead certain of that." He frowned. "No pun intended."

Spock nodded. "Then I shall be forced to trust your judgment."

Leonard smiled with a sudden impishness. "Could I get that in writing? 'Cause I don't think Jim would believe me if I told him."

"That is why I told you, and not Jim." They stared at one another, barely moving, and Spock said, "What will you do now?"

"Sleep."

Spock wrapped his own arms around Leonard. "I meant tomorrow."

"I know."

"What will you do?"

"Psych evaluations."

"Of whom?"

"Entire crew."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to employ your nurses to evaluate some of the less suspicious crewmembers?"

"Nope. I'm doing it all. I don't trust anyone else."

"Your investigation borders on obsession, Leonard," Spock said.

"It's what husbands do."

Spock fell silent and stared at the ceiling. Leonard had said "husbands", not "bondmates". He had been using that word more recently as of late, and it made Spock think about what it meant to be a human's husband. There would be an openness to his life, an honesty with the rest of the crew. They would know of their relationship, and their marriage.

Marriage. They would marry in traditional human style. There would be invitations and dancing and cake. All manner of emotional events surrounded a marriage, which was in itself inextricably bound up in emotion.

Leonard sighed. "You always get abstracted when I talk about getting married."

"It is a complicated notion."

Leonard brushed a finger along the shell of Spock's ear. "What's so complicated about it? I love you, I sure as hell hope that you love me. Stands to reason that we'd get married."

"That's a very human thought."

Leonard's face clouded over. "What's wrong with that? We've both got it in us."

"You cannot simply ignore the fact that my culture is occasionally incompatible with yours," Spock said. "It is unfair that you insist upon my adherence to your cultural beliefs."

"What do you think I've done? I went through physical and mental hell to be your bondmate, and you have the presumption to tell me that I'm insisting on adherence? You know what I think?"

"I cannot possibly imagine."

Leonard pressed on, ignoring Spock's sarcasm. "I think you're afraid of the commitment. It's all well and good as long as we keep this thing under the table. Sneaking to our quarters, just so no one notices. For God's sake, Spock, they're our friends!"

"There is a matter of decorum to consider, Leonard. Any marriage between senior officers has potential ramifications."

"I don't care!" Leonard exploded, jumping out of the bed and collecting his clothes, pulling them on with a furious abandon. "I can't believe this," he said. "I can't believe I fell for you. After my last marriage, you think I'd spot the—"

It was Spock's turn to get to his feet, pulling on his meditation robe and catching the human's wrist and turning him to face the Vulcan. "Spot the what?" he asked, staring at Leonard. The human had raised his mental barriers, and Spock couldn't read what was going on behind the seething anger.

Leonard's mouth drew in a straight, angry line. "The 'my way or the highway' mentality. I'm not good at obeying orders, Sir. And I'm not good at subjugating my desires at every turn. You wanted that, you should have found yourself some nice, docile Vulcan girl."

"Circumstances required that I bond with you, and not a Vulcan."

Leonard stepped back, looking as though he'd been struck. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" he asked. "You regret this. I'm a good time, but you don't think of me as anything more than that."

It was Spock's turn to feel injured. Did Leonard honestly think of him in that way? Couldn't he see . . . Spock didn't know what came over him, but he said in his most glacial tones, "You are rarely if ever a 'good time', Doctor."

The fist came out of nowhere, and Spock had no time to prepare for it. He hit the ground and stared at the carpet. Above him, he heard Leonard speaking in a voice shaken with fury and embarrassment. "You son of a bitch! You want me gone? Fine. Wonderful."

Suddenly, even over Leonard's strident tones, Spock heard something. A soft hissing was filling the room. He pushed himself up and listened. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

Leonard had the good sense to stop, but his stance told Spock he hated doing it. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Spock stood up suddenly, feeling the invasion of something slipping through his veins. "We have to leave."

"That was the idea already," Leonard said turning his back on Spock. Then, he too heard the noise. He stopped and Spock heard him sniff. "Oh, Christ," he gasped. Someone was pumping some sort of gas into their quarters, and it was rather obvious who that someone was.

Momentarily forgetting their animosity as they fought for survival, they were moving for the door. Spock moved ahead, and heard a sickening crack. He turned to see Leonard on his knees and coughing. His eyes watered and each hacking cough was bringing up expectorate blood which splattered on the carpet and the tiny bubbles popped in little red circles.

Spock crashed to his knees seconds later, feeling his head fill with strange fog. He stared at Leonard, who met his eyes even as he collapsed on his side, crimson running from the corner of his mouth. "Spock," he gasped, then fell still. The oft-irritating, but always desired presence in Spock's mind winked out.

Spock felt horror rip away his control. Leonard wasn't in his mind. Even during their argument, the doctor had been there.

The last thing Leonard would remember was Spock telling him that he regretted their bonding. For long moments he stared at the limp form of the human doctor. At last, logic took over where nothing else would, commanding him to act. He pulled himself slowly across the carpet, desperately making for the comm panel.

He lurched against the wall, feeling the pain of such an abrupt contact jar up his arm with wonderful clarity. It gave him just enough time to pull himself up and punch the button. "Spock to security," he managed. "I need—"

A hand slapped against the button, closing the channel. Spock's head whipped around, and he stared in disorientation at the face covered in a gas mask.

"It's all right." The voice behind the mask floated out in muffled distortion. "I won't hurt you. I would never hurt you."

The head turned and Spock's did, as well, even as he slid back down the wall, the gas finally getting to him and starting the inexorable shutdown of his body.

The figure stood over Leonard's sprawled form. "Oh, God," the figure said. "Oh, God. I didn't think there was anyone else here."

The only thing Spock could think to answer was, "Scientific paper . . ."

"Oh, I understand. You have friends. You don't want to admit it, but you do." The figure knelt next to McCoy. "Especially him. You argue, but I know that you care for one another. He's one of your closest companions." The figure looked up, and its voice was a pained whisper. "I'm so, so sorry, but I can't leave witnesses. I can't risk him having seen anything." The figure drew forth a knife. "God, I am so sorry."

"No," Spock choked, slewing to one side and falling to the floor. "I called security. If you value your life, you will leave now."

"My life? A bit too late to think about that, Spock. I have to concern myself with you. With your life."

Spock struggled to keep his eyes open, but they fell shut in time to hear the insidious sucking sound of a knife through flesh. His mind closed in on itself, falling into darkness.

Leonard . . .


	5. 5

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Author's Note: Okay, it's bad when my villain creeps me out. Still, I didn't want a raving lunatic; I wanted someone infinitely more terrifying. I wanted someone you could understand. Someone you could forgive. What happened was, well . . . just read. Sorry if this ended up really disturbing.

Chapter 5

Spock's mind screamed and railed against the black wall which surrounded his mind. For an instant, he had thought he felt some strange searching, about to find him. The wall had blocked the signal from the outside so quickly that Spock couldn't be sure what the searching presence had been, though. It had, he was convinced, been a Vulcan, though how Kirk could have possibly procured a Vulcan was beyond Spock. The Vulcan was gone now, though. Driven back by the darkness.

He wondered why it even mattered to him that something was attempting to seek him out. Leonard's mind was gone, and Spock's mind was isolated and alone. It was emotion and it contaminated every fiber of his being, until every particle was saturated in despair. He felt hollow, and nowhere within was there a trace of his bondmate. Leonard was dead.

Some vicious voice within whispered that Spock had wanted events to turn out this way. He had never desired Leonard as a presence his head, with the illogic and the emotions. The human was a poison to Spock's Vulcan system. Death was the ultimate release, the voice whispered. It was Spock's wish. It was why he hadn't protected Leonard, why wasn't able to save him. It was what had led to their argument, what had led him to say what he had and to drive Leonard off.

He remembered the look in those blue eyes when he'd said that he had no choice but to bond with Leonard: an utter, uncomprehending shock, the look of a man who has been knifed in the back without any warning. Spock had let the human draw the conclusions which he hadn't directly stated, and the doctor had done so. The horrible, frightened pain on his face had told Spock more than what a thousand words might have.

Now Leonard was gone, and it was all Spock's fault. The Vulcan felt unfamiliar constriction in his chest and a tightening in his throat. What would life be, he wondered, without his irritating, nagging, brilliant, wonderful Leonard? Spock felt he should die. When someone lost something as great as this, they should die, too. It was not logical, but it was right.

"Leonard," he breathed, and stared at the floor.

"I'm sorry about that," the woman said. "I had to. I couldn't take the chance that he saw anything."

"I do not understand why," Spock said, trying to master himself. Before this woman he must appear as immobile and unresponsive as a statue. In such a telepathic state, she was most likely an emotional parasite. He risked a glance at her, but instead of seeing the confirming hunger, all he saw was a very young woman biting her lip and watching him with large, sorrowful eyes.

"Why I couldn't risk him seeing me?" she asked, walking over to crouch before Spock and look up at him. He desperately desired to snap his bonds and then her throat, but the wire which held his arms behind his back would sever his hands from his wrists before they released him.

"Why you have resorted to murder," he said.

She cocked her head. "I'm doing it for you. I can tell that you don't want all those women. All the attention. I'm taking care of them for you. It's logical."

"Was killing Leonard logical?"

"Eminently. There are always innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. It's a sad fact, but one that must be accepted. I'll make it up to you, though." She smiled, and there was a sadness in that smile. "It's sometimes ugly, the things we do for those we love."

Spock's eyes narrowed. "I do not believe you comprehend the meaning of that word."

She calmly picked up an old-fashioned scalpel and slashed his arm. It was not a deep cut, but was certainly meant to convey a message. His blood welled and she smiled wistfully. "It's such a lovely shade of green. Do they make clothes in that shade?" She retrieved a spotless white handkerchief from her bureau and wiped the scalpel on it. "I think I should get this framed," she mused. Then, she met his gaze. "I know what love means. Love is sacrifice. Love is pushing aside judgment and morals and everything that you thought meant something for one person. Love is a completely worthwhile insanity." Spock stared at this woman, this psychotic killer, and her words hit home. Leonard, he thought. "Most people," she said, "think that love is sunshine and roses. They're wrong. Love's only worth anything if we don't want it to begin with, if it hunts us down, pursues us until we just can't run any more. We don't choose love. It chooses us, and rips up open. Then it stuffs our insides back in, sews us up, and we smile while we bleed out."

Spock closed his eyes against his thoughts. This was wrong, he thought. It would be so much simpler to hate this woman if she weren't right. Was it terrible that a psychotic understood this concept of love, a concept he had been grappling with since his bonding, better than he did himself? Was it terrible that she should have to explain it to him?

It was most assuredly terrible that the explanation only came after the same woman who was informing him what love was had murdered the only being in the universe that fit the criteria of love.

"You understand," she said. "You couldn't not. You feel it the same way I do. You hate it the same way I do."

Spock didn't trust himself to answer.

"It's why I have to do this. I have to get rid of the women who come after you with no concept of what love really is. They think it's simple and easy. Their presumption is killing you, Spock." She shrugged. "So I'll kill them first. It's an even trade."

"It is what you humans call a 'devil's deal'," Spock argued. Her psychosis ran deep, he thought, if she had come up with such elaborate rationalizations for it. No wonder she passed the psych evaluations. In her mind, she was not insane. In her mind, she was one of the very few rational beings alive. Somehow, that disturbed him more than if she had been simply a raving lunatic.

She nodded. "Sometimes we have to play the devil if we're to succeed."

He stared at her delicate, pretty face and her large, honest eyes and asked, "What are you?"

"That's the question, isn't it?"

"And the answer?"

"I'll tell you when I know." She glanced at the chronometer on the wall. "It's almost time for my shift. I really can't afford to be late."

She moved to the door, and glanced back over her shoulder. She looked sad, but determined. "I need to resume work tonight. I'm sorry you have to see, but I couldn't let them accuse you of a crime you didn't commit. It's better they think you're dead." She looked away. "There are other telepaths on board, Spock. I have to leave the barriers up around the room. I trust you not to call for help, but in case something should accidentally happen, I'm going to keep the room muffled, as well."

Spock stared at her.

She bit her lip and then said, "I really do love you." Before she said anything more, she turned and hurried from the room.

When she was gone, Spock stared hard at the door. How was it possible that this woman had such extensive mental powers? How could she possibly be human? If she was not, how could she possibly have hidden her identity as an alien amongst the crew? Could she have convinced all medical personnel into thinking something that was not true? What being could possibly have that sort of influence?

He quirked his lips. There were far too many unanswered questions about this woman for his taste. The only thing he could say for certain was that she was extremely powerful, profoundly disturbed, and had a deep connection with a feeling Spock had never been able to identify within himself. It was a combination he couldn't consider at positive. One wanted a sadistic killer to be a clearly drawn being of pure evil. Even Vulcans wished that, because shades of gray were confusing. They were painful. It ripped Spock up inside when he found himself actually empathizing with his bondmate's murderer.

It always came back to Leonard. Especially after the woman had crouched there, looking up at him, imploring with her eyes that he understand, that he know what she felt. And he had. As she had spoken he could only think of Leonard.

He had never chosen to love the human. It was the antithesis of logic, the opposite of everything in which he believed. Love had run him to the ground, though. He fought even unto the end, never really understanding what had him until it was gone. Until the woman had murdered the man he loved, and then succinctly explained precisely why it was that he loved the doctor.

Love had picked him, for whatever reason, just as it had picked Leonard. The human had probably not understood any better than Spock, just for different reasons. The man was so skittish that some part of him hadn't believed in love. When it had happened to them, that part of Leonard denied it. That part waited for Spock to confirm its worst fears. And Spock had done so without remorse or hesitation as soon as he had been asked to compromise.

As soon as he had been asked for a public admission of an emotion he had yet to comprehend. Spock had not acted logically, he realized with shame, but fear.

Spock was desperate to clear his mind and set all his racing thoughts in order. He leaned back in his chair, and attempted to slip into a meditative state. Perhaps he could slip past her barriers if he concentrated. Perhaps he could reach Jim.

He isolated the pain in his wrists and pushed it aside. He isolated the sounds in the room and pushed them aside. He narrowed his focus until he had encapsulated his breath. Then he let his mind float free. The world was dark and close, and within it, Leonard sat. Impossible as it was, Leonard sat in his mind, picking at his fingernails.

"Leonard?" he gasped, amazed. It couldn't be. Leonard was dead, but this phantom seemed so very real.

"Heya, Spock." Something was off. The timing, the glance, the tone. All of these resembled his bondmate, but they were imitations. They lacked sincerity.

"You are not Leonard," Spock said.

"Nope. I'm you."

"Explain."

The apparition which resembled Leonard smiled and shrugged. A chair appeared behind him, and the apparition sat. "I'm in you, Spock. Your human half and Leonard's remaining influence all rolled into one fantastic package."

Spock knew without looking that there was a chair behind him. He sat, as well. "Why are you here?"

"It's your meditation, Spock. You conjured me."

"Why?"

Leonard rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake! I swear, for such a smart man, you're remarkably dense." Enunciating each word as if talking to a dull child, the apparition said, "You miss him. You're worried about him. You blame yourself for his death, so you conjure up a ghost so you can say what you need to. So you can say everything you never got the chance to tell the real McCoy, so to speak." He shrugged. "You really botched that one good, my fine Vulcan friend."

"I know," Spock said. He stared at the phantom. "If you are a part of me, why can I not feel you?"

"What do you expect when you bury me under a pile of logic and numbers? Until you bonded with Leonard, I was the silent silent partner. The one who sat back and watched."

"Watched?"

"You and him. In the end, it was always about you and him." He sighed. "Every argument, every near-death experience, didn't you feel that split-second longing for something you couldn't even put your finger on? Something a psychotic had to explain to you, and we'll talk more about the twisted perversity of that later."

"I never felt—"

"Don't lie. Not about that and not now. For God's sake, the man is dead." Spock flinched slightly, and his human half plowed on. "The least you can do is admit your feelings posthumously. And you did have them, Spock! Think: the _Galileo_ incident, Capella IV, the giant amoeba, Twentieth Century Rome—Hell, you were that close to finally breaking down and kissing him. You all but told him that you wanted to."

"That was you."

"Uh-huh. That doctor was a man after my own heart. I thought he was a good influence on you."

"To expose my human half too readily is to invite disaster," Spock said.

"And to completely suppress me is to invite mental breakdown. To say nothing of heartache and regret."

Spock glared at the apparition. "I can see now why we have never conversed before."

The apparition laughed. "You love to argue with him. Why do you resist arguing with me?"

"You are not him."

Leonard stopped laughing. "No, I'm not. He's dead, and I'm all that's left. The little voice in your head echoing the man you love in pale imitation." His face, though still holding Leonard's form, took on a timeless look of distant sorrow which the doctor had never worn. The being was statuesque, regret carved for all eternity in incorruptible stone. "I'm just you, Spock," the phantom said, "but I'm the closest you'll ever again find to him. So make your apologies, Vulcan."

Spock's mouth fell open and they stared at one another. "I'm sorry," Spock finally said, choking on the words.

"Why?"

"Because I loved him, and I didn't tell him enough. Because he died thinking I had rejected him, simply because I feared." He stared at the apparition. "I feared, and I lost him."

The apparition spread its arms in a gesture of benediction. "I forgive you."

Spock shook his head. "It is not your forgiveness I desire. You're just his shadow."

"I'm his ghost. And my acceptance of your apology is just as sadly lacking as I."

"I know."

"I wouldn't have bothered telling you if you didn't."

Spock was jolted out of his reverie to blink up at the woman standing over him.

"Have you been meditating since I left?" she asked. "I'm sorry to break you out of it."

He stared at her and didn't speak. He worried that his voice would tremble.

"You're in pain," she said, mouth opening softly. "You're in so much pain."

"You're an empath," he said.

"You're changing the subject."

"I do not wish to discuss the subject."

She nodded. "I understand. That sort of pain isn't something you want, but you'll cling to it nonetheless. It's a secret pain." At his suspicious look, she said, "I won't pry, Spock. That sort of pain is your own. It's none of my business. At least, not until you come to trust me a little more." She opened her mouth to say something more, and then turned, saying abruptly, "It's time I got to work." She began to remove her clothing with deft, steady fingers.

"So you do your work without clothing," Spock said, remembering Leonard's comment about Lizzie Borden. The memory was a knife in his gut, and every remembered gesture, the way those blue eyes had lit up with sudden inspiration, that smile, all twisted the knife further. "How do you accept the fact of murder? How do you reassure yourself when your skin is covered in blood?"

"I reassure myself with the knowledge that it'll wash. A little water, a little soap, and it all washes."

She crept over to the bed and Spock followed her with his eyes. Lying unconscious on the mattress was a pale young woman named Lieutenant Rogers. He had assisted her with a paper on Vulcan linguistics roughly three months prior to that moment. He distinctly remembered that she smiled at him when she didn't think he was looking.

The woman at Rogers' bedside picked up her scalpel and glanced at Spock. "It all washes."


	6. 6

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Chapter 6

oOo An hour earlier oOo

The first thing Leonard McCoy noticed was the intensity of the lights. The second thing he noticed was pain.

"Spock . . ." he gasped, feeling the words grate in his throat. "Spock!"

"Whoa!" a voice said, and garbled protests clamored for attention. Hands held him down, and his eyes flew open.

"Spock!" he gasped.

Above him, Jim Kirk, Jeffrey M'Benga and Christine Chapel swam into focus. "Easy, Doctor," M'Benga said. "You're barely patched together as is."

"Where's Spock?" McCoy asked. "I was . . ." he remembered that Christine didn't know about Spock and him and stopped. Looking around, he said, "I was visiting him."

"What happened, Bones?" Jim asked.

McCoy closed his eyes. "We were talking . . . and then we heard something. A hissing. Gas in the vents. It knocked me out. Where's Spock?"

"Not here," Kirk said.

"Where?" McCoy asked.

"We don't know."

McCoy struggled to sit up, but was universally pushed down by three pairs of hands. "I have to . . . I've got to . . ."

"You can't," M'Benga said. "You're far too weak to do anything."

"But," McCoy looked to Kirk, "Jim, I have to find him. God only knows where he is or what's happening to him."

Jeffrey shifted on his feet and asked, "Nurse Chapel, could you help me look over the charts in the next room?"

"But . . ." Christine said.

"Come on, Nurse," he urged. "Let them talk."

When they were gone, McCoy immediately grabbed Kirk's wrist. "Jim, I can't feel him. The last thing we ever did was argue. I hit him. He told me he regretted getting bonded and I hit him. And now he's gone, Jim."

"What do you mean?" Kirk asked, staring at his doctor.

"In my head," McCoy said. "I can't feel him in my head."

Kirk's expression clouded with ill-concealed fear. "Is he dead?"

"I don't know. I just feel empty."

Kirk grabbed his shoulders. "Bones!" he said. "I need you to concentrate. Maybe he's still here but blocked. Could you find him?"

"I don't know, Jim! Especially after that gas, I feel pretty odd, and my telepathy's no good even at peak health." Oh, God. Spock was gone, and had left hating McCoy, and thinking McCoy hated him. He said that he bonded to the doctor because there was no other choice. But he hadn't wanted to. For a month, he had fooled McCoy into thinking that he had, but it had been a ruse. Pity, maybe. Oh, God . . .

Or maybe not. Maybe it had been the heat of the moment which made Spock say what he said. Maybe, in his own Vulcan way, he had been just as angry as McCoy. Lord knew that the doctor said things he didn't mean during those moments. Spock had been so cold, though. So direct and cutting.

Jim shook him. "Bones, snap out of it! Whatever happened between the two of you, you have to put it aside. I need you to find him, do you hear? I need you to try. I know the two of you are connected, so reach out and find Spock."

"Jim, I can't even feel the connection!"

"So, find it!"

"It doesn't work that way. It's either there or it's not. I don't have control over these things."

"Well, you'd better get some control," Jim said, "because you're the only hope of finding him."

"I don't know if I can, Jim!"

"Look at me," Kirk ordered, and they stared one another down. "Do you want to find Spock in a hall somewhere? Green blood all over the walls, soaking into the carpet? Do you want that?"

"Of course not."

"Then do something. Stop making excuses and find him, because you can, and he'll be dead if you're too afraid." His voice dropped. "Bones, I've seen men do extraordinary things when they have to. I know you don't like whatever mental abilities this bonding has given you, but for his sake you must stop being afraid. Use what you've got, and don't go half-measure with it."

McCoy slowly nodded. He didn't know where to even begin, but he closed his eyes and concentrated on Spock, every detail, every hair. Every inflection and everything which made the man uniquely Spock.

McCoy searched mentally, barely knowing how. It was like groping in the dark. He reached out with nonexistent fingers, trying to find Spock, trying to locate his lover, his bondmate, his husband. It was like trying to find a missing arm, searching for it throughout the entire ship.

Was this what he should be doing? He had no clue. It seemed right, but was it all just in his imagination? What was the difference between imagination and honest psychic phenomena? What if he got this wrong? What if he thought he found Spock but it was just his own desperation? There was nothing else he could try. Jim was counting on him. Spock was counting on him. Leonard McCoy was not a hero, but now he had to be.

Jim had said to stop being afraid. Jim had said that his mental abilities were enough to find Spock. Jim could be wrong about a great many things, but the man's intuition was second to none.

So Leonard searched the ship. He wasn't searching with his eyes, but with strange little tendrils slipping through the Enterprise, touching . . . touching . . .

He looked up and gasped. He felt his eyes snap open, but couldn't see. He felt himself connected to everything on the ship. Every machine, every brain, every soul. He must have done something wrong. This wasn't what should happen. It was too much for his mind to contain. It was too vast. Too many foreign thoughts assaulting him from every direction, deafening, roaring, drowning him. Where was Spock in all this? How could he possibly hope to find the Vulcan, let alone find himself? Who was he?

"Oh, God," he breathed.

Somewhere, Jim was calling, "Bones? Bones! What are you doing?"

He couldn't listen, though. Didn't even know who this Bones was. All he knew was that somewhere in this morass, there was a man named Spock, a man who meant everything to him. A man he had to find, no matter what the cost.

A feather brush. A tingling along his tendrils. He groped in that direction.

The black curtain descended as though it were made of lead, crushing Leonard's mind, dropping between him and Spock. The Vulcan was gone, and every tendril of McCoy's mind was on fire. He was dying.

A sharp pain, more urgent and tangible suddenly broke through his concentration, shattering the onslaught. The pain came again, and suddenly he saw the sickbay, losing contact with the other minds on the ship.

Jeffrey was standing over him, his hand raised got another slap. On the other side of the bed, Kirk knelt on the floor, shaking. Christine was in a chair near the captain, her head between her knees.

For a long moment, he couldn't for the life of him understand where or who he was. He knew these people, but didn't know how. Then, he remembered. He was Leonard McCoy, and he had just tried to use his full mental abilities. "What . . ?" he managed. Jeff slapped him one more time. "Goddammit, Jeff!" he shouted. "What the hell happened?"

"You went into a Vulcan telepathic trance," Jeffrey said.

"I'm not Vulcan," McCoy said. "How did I do that?"

"It probably has something to do with your . . . unique condition," Jeffrey told him. "I brought you out of it with a traditional Vulcan technique."

"Slapping me? Slapping me is traditional?"

Jeffrey shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"

McCoy shook his head. "This whole thing is crazy. Why is Jim on the floor?"

"Because your trance connected you to both him and Christine. When you experienced something, they felt the echoes of your feelings."

McCoy shook his head violently. "Not even a Vulcan could do that. Not without physical contact and a full mind-meld."

"But you can."

Jim had pushed himself to his feet. "Did you find Spock?"

McCoy nodded. "He's alive, but there's something with him."

"Some_thing_?"

"Yeah. Something extremely powerful. Humans don't have that kind of, well, most humans don't have that kind of power."

"You do," Christine said, staring at him. "How?"

"I'll tell you when I figure it out."

"This thing," Kirk said, pulling them back on track, "what was it?"

"Something huge, at least in my mind. It was like a black wall, or some sort of smothering cloud." He shrugged. "Of course, that's what it looked like telepathically. Lord knows what I look like when I'm incorporeal."

"You're blue," Christine whispered. "Blue and warm. Until the pain it was almost nice to have you in my head."

"Thanks," McCoy said.

"Could you locate him in the ship?" Jim asked. "Think, Bones. Where is he on the ship?"

McCoy concentrated. "Jim, I don't know."

"How can you not-?"

"It doesn't work that way, Jim!" McCoy snapped. "I was everywhere. I was the ship. When I found Spock, it wasn't in a place. It was . . . I don't know. It was in me somewhere."

"Where?"

McCoy gritted his teeth. "In my spleen, Jim. How the hell can I locate Spock if I thought he was in my spleen?"

Kirk sighed. "I don't know."

"You're sure he's alive, though?" Jeffrey asked

"I know it."

Jeffrey didn't ask more. He and McCoy knew that if Spock were dead, the shock of severance would kill McCoy just as surely. A Vulcan could barely survive the death of a bondmate, and a human had far less mental control. He would die without the contact. It would be the complete shutdown of a vital organ.

Kirk didn't know the details, but he nodded anyway. He could intuit what he didn't know.

Christine was the only one in the room who had no knowledge of McCoy and Spock's bonding, and so she was the only one who didn't even have the bare minimum of data to understand what was happening. She simply sat and watched, a frown line appearing between her brows as she stared at McCoy. She was grasping for something just outside her reach, but couldn't quite catch it.

"He's alive," McCoy repeated, more to convince himself than anything else. "And I'm going to find him."

"How?" Christine asked.

"By psychically hunting down that black wall, I'll find Spock."

"It was killing you," M'Benga said. "If I hadn't gotten to you and brought you out of the trance in time, you would be dead. And you'd probably have taken the captain and Christine with you."

"That's why I need you to find me everything on Vulcan psychic abilities and practices that you have, Jeff," McCoy said.

M'Benga frowned but knew better than to debate an issue with the stubborn southern doctor.

"What do you intend to do?" Kirk asked, eyeing McCoy suspiciously.

McCoy met his gaze and felt something strange whispering through him. It wasn't often he felt extreme rage, but this felt vaguely like it. Still, it wasn't precisely the feeling. It was old, a power he had never felt, a hatred and danger that was completely alien.

Alien. That was precisely what it was. It was Vulcan, a feeling which humans were not meant to experience, predating Surak. Hell, it was the reason Surak had imposed such a strict code of logic in the first place. McCoy growled, "I'm going to kill it right back."


	7. 7

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Chapter 7

James T. Kirk pressed the chime to Leonard McCoy's quarters. When no one answered, he overrode the lock and walked in. He found the doctor sitting in front of his computer terminal, staring at the screen and chewing on the end of a stylus.

"There was another murder," Jim told McCoy.

The doctor didn't look up. "Christ."

"Lieutenant Rogers. Linguistics."

McCoy's eyes closed. "I know the girl. She slipped a disc about three months back. I was in charge of her physical therapy."

"M'Benga says it was the same MO. Torture and a slit throat in public. And no one saw."

"Mental influence. The killer convinces everyone that they didn't see anything, even if they did." McCoy finally looked up and met Jim's gaze. His eyes were red from staring at the computer screen too hard. There might be other reasons for the redness, but Jim didn't presume to guess at that. "That's my guess after seven hours of research."

"What about your telepathy? Any leads?"

McCoy looked back to the screen. "Do you know how many Vulcan mental disciplines there are?"

Jim took a wild guess. "Ten?"

McCoy snorted. "Try ten-thousand. And each of 'em are a little different than the rest." Finally, he looked up at the screen. "And not a one of 'em that I've looked at yet apply to me."

Jim sat down in a chair across from McCoy. "So what do you know?" he asked.

McCoy leaned back and sighed. "Well," he said, "I know that I have some sort of mental ability which packs a hell of a punch. I know that I can't control it and I don't know exactly what it is or where it comes from. It doesn't look or feel Vulcan, but I can't think what else it could be. It's not on the books, but it gave fifty-two people on this ship a splitting migraine."

"And you didn't even have to talk to them."

McCoy glared at Jim, and the captain smiled innocently. "Don't you start," the doctor growled.

"Why fifty-two?" Jim asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You said that you gave fifty-two people migraines. Why just fifty-two?"

McCoy frowned. "I don't know," he said. Slowly, he straightened in his chair and met the captain's gaze. "Do you think it's important?"

Jim's mind was rushing. Finally, he thought he had a lead, perhaps it was a bit unconventional, but he considered it solid, nonetheless. Now, if only he could piece it together, figure out why only fifty-two people had been affected . . .

"I had a migraine," he said. "So did Nurse Chapel."

"Jeff didn't," McCoy remembered. "Maybe he wasn't affected because he knew about Vulcan abilities, or spent time on Vulcan or some such."

Jim shook his head. "That doesn't account for everyone else unaffected. Besides, I know about Vulcan abilities, and I've been to Vulcan. It doesn't track."

"Well, what else was different, Jim?" McCoy demanded.

The captain thought, letting his mind go back to the incident. He remembered the strange sensation of - not invasion, but pervasion. A gentle suffusion of another presence in his mind. And then, a jolting pain, falling to the floor, opening his eyes and seeing the Sickbay. Seeing the nurse . . .

"Christine and I were near the door," he said. "M'Benga was on the other side of you." Something in his brain finally clicked. "It only affected one side of the room." His eyes widened and he stared at McCoy, who met his gaze in rapt attention. "Bones, it was directional!"

"Only fifty-two people affected . . ." McCoy said, staring at him and jumping to his feet. "Jim, it's a path!"

"A direct line between you and Spock." He stood, too. "We need to get up to Sickbay and get Chris to give us those records. We'll call Sulu and interview everyone, find out exactly where they were when they were hit. Hopefully, when we cull the information we'll get a pattern."

McCoy thought for a second and then said, "You go. I'm staying here."

"What? Bones—"

"Jim, don't argue. Even if these migraines form some sort of line. Even if we find Spock, we've still got to get him out of there. We have to get him past a telepath that knocked me on my ass and can block a fully-trained Vulcan's mental emanations directed to his bondmate."

"That's hard to do?"

"There's a reason they call 'em bondmates, Jim. It's a mental bond that refuses to break. For something to interfere with a bond like that, it suggests . . . well, it suggests something I don't want to mess with."

Jim nodded grimly, wondering not for the first time how something as powerful, dangerous, and most importantly, something as psychotic as this had found its way onto this ship. Onto his ship. He could accept the fact that terrible being existed in the universe. He had met many of them. But this thing was on the Enterprise, his girl, his love, his ship. That was unacceptable. "What will you do here, Bones?"

"I'm going to read up on Vulcan mental disciplines. Every single one Jeff supplied me with. I find out what I've got, how to use it, and when we find out where Spock is, I go in there and do my thing."

"That's it?" Jim asked, feeling dismayed. "You 'do your thing'?"

McCoy rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You got a better idea, Jim? I'm flying by the seat of my pants, here. Got no idea what I'm doing, but I know I have to do it."

"Bones—"

"Jim, you got interviews to do! Go do them and let me work. Every second we waste arguing is another chance for this bastard to kill Spock." The doctor turned away from him deliberately. Jim stared at the tensed back and then left.

As he strode through the halls, Jim found himself thinking about Spock and Bones. It was something he found himself doing often, of late. He supposed that was to be expected. It wasn't every day you found out your two best friends went planetside and came back psychically married. He wondered if there had been signs over the years and he had just ignored the indicators. All he could think of was the arguments, though, the insults and the glares. Were those the signs of love? Was that why . . .

Jim shook his head. It was no good thinking about that sort of thing. When something ended, you couldn't dwell on it, you had to move on. Carol had gone her way and he had gone his. It was a mutual agreement which had to be made for both their sakes. Still, it was strange to recognize that same volatile chemistry in his first officer and CMO.

He felt conflicted. As a captain, he knew he should worry about the marriage of such high-ranking officers. It was possible that it would affect their performance, redirect their thoughts away from the business of the ship. Or, even worse, make them hesitate to send one another on dangerous assignments. Then again, it was better than marrying a junior officer. Lord knew what sort of scandal that could cause.

What about his opinion as someone other than a captain? As a friend? That was something he usually staved off thinking about, but now he forced himself to do so. He supposed that he should be happy for the two of them. It was hard enough to get by in this universe, let alone find someone else you could love enough to marry.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he had become so cynical after so many failed love affairs that he didn't believe in anything more permanent than dalliances. He worried for both his friends, should this not work out. How did Vulcans divorce? Could they divorce? Would it destroy the working relationship of his two most valued officers if they realized that it was nothing more than the heat of the moment? Where would Jim fall between his two friends?

He walked into the turbolift and hoped for the best. During the ride, he tried to concentrate on the case laid out before him, on the tragic murder of two of his young officers, but his mind continually strayed to his friends. What would happen to Bones if Spock died?

The turbolift came to a stop and Jim hurried out. That was what it came down to: none of his worries and fears mattered if Spock died. He wasn't about to lose his friend over something like this. Not on this ship. A person couldn't abduct the first officer and kill him, not when it was Spock, and not when the captain of the ship was James T. Kirk.

He walked briskly through the doors to the sickbay, calling, "Nurse Chapel!"

There was no answer, and Kirk walked into the office, thinking she might not have heard him. "Nurse Chapel?" he asked again. "Doctor M'Benga?" He looked around, wondering why the Sickbay would be so vacant at this time. Had there been another death? The thought seized at his gut, but he pushed it aside. He would have been called if that were the case. So why were they not answering?

"Nurse?" he called. "Doctor—" Captain Kirk stopped and stared. Protruding from behind the desk was a dark-skinned arm, the fingers of the hand curling limply. Jim dashed over and caught up Doctor M'Benga, who lay, bleeding out of a cut on his head and in his chest. Jim slapped the intercom on the desk and pressed a hand against the chest wound, trying to stop the blood. "Medical emergency in Sickbay!" he shouted. "Bones, get down here now!"

Turning away from the console, he said, "M'Benga. Jeffrey, talk to me. Who did this? Where is Nurse Chapel?"

The doctor's eyes fluttered open. "Took Christine," he gasped.

"Who? Who took Christine?"

"Couldn't see . . . had a . . . mask."

Jim quelled the urge to grill the doctor further when he saw the trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "That's fine, Jeff," he forced himself to say. "That's just fine."

The doctor shook his head. "No! It's got Chris. It's got . . ." he fell limply back in Jim's arms.

McCoy came running in. "Jim, what in Sam Hell . . ." he saw M'Benga. "Oh, my God." He dropped to his knees next to Jim and Jeffrey, feeling for a pulse and then running a medical tricorder over him. "Punctured lung and a glancing blow to the head. Get him up on the table, Jim, I've got to operate."

"He said that the killer took Christine."

McCoy spared a second to close his eyes before saying. "I have to operate on M'Benga or he's going to die. Help me, Jim."

They hefted the other doctor to an operating table, and McCoy said, "You get Sulu. The migraine reports are on the red disc on my desk. You work that while I work this."

Kirk nodded, his gut clenching. Now the killer had two victims, and Lord only knew what would become of Jeff. He pressed a hand against the comm. channel and said, "Lieutenant Sulu to the ward room. We've got more interviews to conduct."

He glanced back at McCoy standing over the still body of M'Benga. "Bones," he said.

"Go, Jim."

"Do you need me to call one of the other nurses?"

McCoy shook his head. "I've got it. Chris," he choked, then cleared his throat and glared hard at M'Benga, trying to think the pain away, "Chris always keeps this place in perfect order."

Kirk nodded, and then left, praying for the best.

Sulu was waiting in the ward room, and looked up as Kirk walked in. "Captain, what—"

"The murderer has Nurse Chapel and critically injured Doctor M'Benga."

Sulu's mouth fell open.

"There are a string of people with migraines on this ship which developed about the time McCoy made psychic contact with Spock and was stopped by Spock's attacker. We're hoping that by tracing their whereabouts, we'll pinpoint Spock's location and rescue him."

Now, Sulu looked confused. "The doctor is psychic? Where was I when that happened?"

"I know the feeling, Mister Sulu." Jim shrugged. "Just accept it and move on. We have fifty-two people to interview and fast."

Sulu nodded and dropped McCoy's red disc into the data reader, calling up the list of names. "Aye, Sir," he said and called up the first name on the list.

Jim sat at the table and tried not to fidget. Spock was somewhere on this ship, and now Christine Chapel was with him. And both of them would be dead if he couldn't figure this out.


	8. 8

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Chapter 8

Christine Chapel opened her eyes and shook her head, trying to remember where she was and why.

"Nurse," she heard a familiar voice say.

She looked up to see Spock wearing his meditation robe and tied to a chair. It was about then that she noticed her hands and legs tied together, bending her knees and making it impossible to even crawl. "Mister Spock," she said. She craned her neck around to take in the room as best she could. There was really only one conclusion she could draw: "This is where he lives, isn't it?"

"She. And yes."

Chapel nodded and tried to remain calm. "And I'm the next victim."

Spock looked away momentarily. "That seems highly likely."

"Where is she now?"

"I believe she's on her shift."

"What are our chances of escape while she's gone?"

"Negligible. The material binding my wrists seems to be a thin metal wire. Unless I wish to amputate my hands, I cannot break free. I am not quite prepared to do such a thing as of yet."

Chapel pressed lightly against her own bonds before saying, "I think I'm tied with the same material."

Spock nodded.

Chapel frowned, some ironic part of her mind thinking that that she finally got Spock into a bedroom with her. And now she was going to die. It made a strange sort of sense. "What should I expect?" she asked.

"Torture," Spock said. "Mostly with an old-style scalpel. She will urge you to admit some sort of infatuation for me."

"Oh, God," Chapel said, her cheeks burning.

"Indeed. When you admit that, she will take you away, presumably to kill you."

Christine nodded. She felt she should say something. A four-year interest in someone should probably be revealed before death. It made sense.

She didn't say a word. Instead, she found herself asking, "Why is she doing this?"

"Love. One of the most dangerous emotions in existence."

"And easily one of the most compelling," Chapel murmured, focusing her eyes on the door.

Spock inclined his head slightly.

"What if I scream for help?" she asked.

"Psychic baffling. And I believe that the same applies if you scream when she kills you."

"She can convince people they aren't seeing what they really are?" she asked. Keeping her voice steady was now a job which took a considerable effort.

"So it seems."

"Oh."

Chapel lay on the bed and tried to think of a way out of the situation. After all, she had never yet been in a predicament which was impossible from which to escape. There was always an out, or someone on the way to help her. This situation couldn't possibly be different. Her mind rejected the idea that there was no escape. Death wasn't something that she could even comprehend.

She thought that maybe that should be funny. She faced death every day. She had written more death certificates than she could remember. In all logic, she should expect death at any time, and yet she couldn't. Maybe it was a human instinct to reject one's own mortality.

Chapel focused on her bonds. They were, indeed, wire. She tried to slip her wrists free from the bonds, but the wire bit into her flesh and she stopped. Her captor had removed her boots, and so her ankles were already imprinted. She tried to estimate how much time it would take to cut through her skin. Chris found herself choking back a laugh. She was going to be tortured and brutally murdered, and she was worried about cuts on her ankles. Spock would certainly think her completely illogical.

"I don't want to die," she said.

"Understandable."

She looked at him sharply and, greatly daring, asked, "Do you want to die?"

He blinked at her. "Certainly not."

"I am going to die, though," she said. "I wonder what it'll be like. I mean, my mother believed in heaven, my father believed in nothing, and I . . . I've no idea." She closed her eyes. "But the thought that after death everything just stops is repellant."

"Nurse," Spock said, shifting in his chair.

"I'm sorry." Chapel smiled. "I feel like talking."

"I fear that I am not exceptional company."

"Well, I prefer you," she said. At Spock's slight tightening of posture, she amended, "I prefer you to someone hysterical. I'd probably lose control if anyone else did."

"I see."

"Spock—" she started.

"I believe I must inform you that I do not requite whatever interest you may hold for me," Spock said with an uncharacteristic abruptness.

Chapel found herself gaping, despite her training. After a few seconds, she regained her composure and, despite the way her stomach seemed to twist in her gut, she said, "I know." He watched her with a guarded sort of look in his eye. She almost pitied him and said, "I gave up on reciprocation years ago, Mister Spock."

Spock seemed to consider, and then finally just said, "Oh."

She nodded and felt the tension in the room relax to some degree. That is, it was relaxed as it could be with her imminent death looming on the horizon. "I didn't expect to die like this," she said. She glanced at Spock and added, "I'm being macabre. I'm sorry."

"On the contrary, were you not dwelling on this, I should become concerned."

"Emotion, Mister Spock?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Never."

Then, she heard the door beep. Something clenched in Chapel's gut and she looked in near-panic to the Vulcan. His eyes met hers and, in a moment of understanding, he said, "I shall do what I can."

Christine nodded, and the door slid open, revealing the slight form of a woman she had treated in sickbay not two weeks prior. "Lieutenant Stone?" she gasped.

Carol Stone blinked at her. "You're awake," she said. "I'm sorry I was delayed. It's important that I don't miss work."

"Nancy Wallace was your friend," Chapel said.

Stone walked over to perch on the edge of the bed next to the nurse's head. "Yes, she was."

"And you murdered her."

"I did."

"Just like you're going to murder me."

"Not exactly," Stone said, "but similarly." She reached over to a bedside table and picked out a scalpel. "If it helps, this is necessary. And I'm sorry."

"Bones!" Jim Kirk all but shouted as the doctor finished the cleanup after a successful operation on Jeffrey M'Benga. "We've got her!"

McCoy turned sharply, his heart thundering in his chest. "Her?"

"Lieutenant Carol Stone," Jim said in anguish. "We had her, Bones. We had her and she fooled us."

McCoy nodded. "She won't do it a second time."

Spock, wanting to buy at least a little time for the nurse, said, "I do not desire this woman to be harmed."

Stone turned to him and cocked her head. "Why?"

"She is a valued member of the crew."

"She can be replaced," Stone said. She started to turn back to Chapel.

"Have you considered the possible fruitlessness of your venture?" Spock asked. "You certainly cannot find all the women who harbor an admiration for me."

She turned again to regard him. "It's not something I've considered yet," she admitted. "I have a short list if threats, but I suppose I should plan further ahead. Thank you."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance if you would tell me who you have on your list already."

She smiled in bemusement. "You're stalling." She turned back to Chapel. "Hope isn't something you should give these women. It makes things harder in the end."

Jim barely noticed the security forces falling in behind the doctor and him. He knew that Ensign Stone never kept her victims for long. If they didn't hurry, both chapel and Spock may be dead.

They crowded onto the turbolift and waited.

Christine saw the scalpel coming for her face and forced herself to stare it down. She was beyond fear, she told herself. She must have control. She mustn't scream, cry, or beg.

The first cut was to her cheek, and it burned like fire. Blood welled, and started to spill. Christine bit back a whimper and looked up into the face of her attacker. Stone's expression was soft, unassuming. There was no predatory intent, simply a detached curiosity.

The next cut was deeper, and started at the corner of her mouth. Christine closed her eyes to stop the tears.

The turbolift doors opened and Jim sprinted out, turning left.

"No!" McCoy said suddenly. "We're going the wrong way."

"But the path—"

"Was a red herring." Their eyes met. "Trust me."

Jim paused for a second, and then turned to the guards. "Go to Lieutenant Stone's quarters and check them. If no one's there, I want you to locate us and get to our location as soon as possible."

The guards nodded and kept on down the left-hand tunnel. McCoy turned and dashed down the right. After a second's hesitation, Jim followed.

Spock watched the slow, deliberate torture of a woman he considered a friend. She held up remarkably, all things considered, but the tears were escaping her control, and her body was quaking from the pain.

He prepared to keep his promise to her. He would do what he could.

Mentally, he told himself that pain was irrelevant, a thing to be controlled. One could survive without hands . . .

Leonard McCoy had no idea what was guiding him. All he knew was that there was a way to go, and he had to follow it. He had to find Spock and something in his head tightened with every step.

He was almost there . . .

Spock tensed his muscles and the wire began to bite into his skin. The flesh parted and he felt something warm and wet flow down his hands.

He couldn't think of his hands or he'd lose his nerve.

He took a deep breath and . . .

The door slid open.

There was no one inside.

Four security guards immediately called for computer assistance.

The door slid open and Leonard charged in. Kirk stopped in the door as though trapped in a web.

Everything stopped. Spock's head whipped around and he regarded his bondmate with shock. He felt everything in him still at the apparition. It was not possible, yet there he was. Leonard was alive, and the presence in his head burst upon him with a sudden intensity. Forgotten was the pain in his (thankfully still attached) hands. Forgotten was his predicament and the woman standing not five feet from him. Everything faded until all he could see was the man in the door.

There was a noise from the bed which broke his concentration. Stone, who had paused mid-incision to stare at the doctor in bewilderment, had just pulled the scalpel free of Chapel's face and turned to face Leonard fully.

Christine said, "Doctor!"

"What are you here for?" Stone asked, looking bewildered.

"I'm here for my lover," the doctor said, his stance tight, almost Vulcan.

Chapel's mouth dropped open and her eyes flew to Spock.

"You can have her when I'm done," Stone offered.

"Wasn't talking about Chris, though I'll take her too, thanks."

For the first time, Spock sensed a decided current of anger in Stone. Her eyes slitted. "Your lover?" she asked.

"You bet your ass."

She smiled, but the smile chilled the room. "I knew that there was something he wasn't telling." She glanced at Spock. "I thought it was a woman. You're a better liar than you pretend."

"I never lied. I omitted the truth."

She smiled. "That's my boy."

"Security's on the way," Leonard said, cutting through their conversation.

She smiled. "They won't see anything. Not even the captain sees." Spock saw Kirk, looking around as if he were lost. "So, why can you see?' she asked.

"Guess I'm just lucky."

And then, Spock felt her unleash. The mind hidden by her tiny body ripped through the room toward his bondmate. Spock struggled to stop it, but to no avail. The immensity bushed him aside as though he weren't even there.

Leonard held his ground, and Spock felt the air itself shiver as something stopped Stone's mind. The two forces struggled, pushing relentlessly against one another. Realization dawned on Spock that the force acting against Stone was McCoy's mind. He couldn't understand how, but his bondmate was powerful. The kind of power Spock had only heard about. How could he possibly develop something like that in such a short time, without giving any prior hints?

Powerful or not, Leonard was slowly losing ground. His ability, though extreme, was undeveloped. Stone, on the other hand, had obviously nurtured her gift for years, honing it a way that the doctor simply could not match.

Leonard staggered, and his eyes widened as he realized the same. Spock felt his bondmate's mind grope for his. He felt the human's fear and uncertainty, both of Stone and of himself. He felt despair as Leonard prepared for whatever came with a defeat in such a competition.

And Spock dimly heard himself shout, "No!" He stared at Stone and said, "I beg you. Do not kill him. You spoke of love, and I ask you to accept it as a reason for mercy. I love him." Drawing a deep breath, knowing how very serious such a declaration was, he repeated, "I love him."

Stone tore her eyes away from Leonard and stared at Spock, her expression shattering. "But . . ." she whispered, "I love. . ." Then, she closed her eyes. "It picks us," she whispered, and Spock felt her attack dissipate.

Leonard gasped as he met no resistance. For an instant, all three of them knew what was about to happen. Leonard even managed to gasp out an, "Oh, God no." Then, Spock felt his untrained mind surge forward, despite any attempt on his part to rein it in. All the psychic ability in his small frame came to bear on Lieutenant Junior-Grade Carol Stone.

She crumpled without a sound, eyes staring at Spock an instant and then staring at nothing. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She lay there. She breathed, she stared, and she did not move.

Leonard fell to his knees and stared at her in horror. Jim's head snapped around to stare at the room in horror. Apparently, all Stone's illusions and mental tricks were gone.

The captain walked forward and knelt at Stone's side, checking her pulse and then rolling her on her back. She stared at the ceiling, not even acknowledging the movement.

"She's gone," Leonard rasped. "My God, I couldn't stop myself."

"What did you do?" Kirk asked, staring at the doctor.

"I destroyed her mind."

Jim looked back and forth between Stone and Leonard and said nothing. Finally, he rose, went to Chapel and released her. He then did the same for Spock.

"You should look after both of these people, Doctor," he said. "And Stone. You should figure out what to do with her."

Leonard nodded, and his numbness communicated to Spock.

They left the room just as security arrived. Spock noted that the name on the door was that of Lieutenant Nancy Wallace.


	9. 9

Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Chapter 9

Leonard McCoy signed the last of the papers explaining his conduct concerning Lieutenant Stone. Not that he really could, but he had done his best. Starfleet would clear him, of course. He had caught and stopped a serial killer, and that was what was important. The woman lying in a vegetative state in his sickbay, waiting to be dropped off at the nearest Starbase was inconsequential to the brass. Not to him, though. He had done that without intention. He had been unable to stop himself when he should have. The girl had surrendered, and he had crushed her mind beyond any and all recognition.

Two rooms away, he heard Ensign Montoya think that Lieutenant Galt looked wonderful in her uniform.

He shook his head. It had been happening more and more often. He never meant to, but other people's thoughts would suddenly crop up in his head. He couldn't listen. It was unethical, and every time he heard another mind speaking, he feared what he might accidentally do to it.

Stone's mind had been so fragile. When he hit it, it had cracked and shattered without a second's resistance. He hadn't been able to stop himself. It had been a dam breaking, and all the force in his head had pounded forward.

It couldn't happen again, he thought. But how was he supposed to stop something which he didn't know about? If he didn't even know how he'd done it, so what was to stop it from attacking again? Next time, it might not be a serial killer, but some unfortunate crewmember that was in the wrong place at the wrong time and said the wrong thing. Who knew what would set him off?

McCoy felt like a bomb with an uncertain trigger. Cut the wrong wire, and he'd go off, with no more control than the bomb had over its own detonation. He was afraid to leave his quarters, afraid to talk to people, afraid to look them in the eye. He had never felt so afraid, so betrayed by his own body than at that moment.

Three doors to the other side, Lieutenant Cary wondered how he could optimize waste extraction.

"Dammit," McCoy said, pushing Cary from his mind.

"Leonard," Spock said. "We must do something about this."

"Don't you think I've been trying?" he demanded. "I've read everything we have on telepathy, Spock. I still don't know what I've got, and Lieutenant Stone is still a shell without a scrap of consciousness." He pressed a hand across his eyes. "What if I do that to someone who I care about, Spock? What if we're arguing, and I accidentally hurt you?"

"I agree that this is a problem."

"Thank you, Spock, for that brilliant diagnosis." He mentally chided himself for snapping at Spock. It wasn't his bondmate's fault that his mind was going haywire. "Sorry," he muttered.

Spock watched him for a second before coming over to sit behind him on the bed and placing his hands on McCoy's shoulders. You are slipping, Leonard, he thought. A bit more each day.

I know, McCoy thought. I'll resign before it gets too bad.

Spock stilled and McCoy felt his rejection of the idea.

Well, I have to do something, and I'm running out of options. I'm sure there are plenty of planets just waiting for me to hermit on them. McCoy tried and failed to smile.

Spock removed one of his hands and after a second, deposited a padd in McCoy's lap. The doctor picked it up, reading the note.

He turned to Spock and said, "You're taking a leave of absence?"

"We are taking a leave of absence, Leonard."

"Does it involve hermiting?"

Spock arched an eyebrow. "To some extent, I'm sure. However, it more involves Vulcans."

"We're going to Vulcan?" McCoy asked, staring at his bondmate.

"Indeed. If anyone can help you, they can. And I shall be at your side."

"Damn noble of you."

Spock took a breath, and then said, "It is what husbands do."

"What?" McCoy asked.

Spock reached in a pocket of his robe. "Though I had hoped for a more precipitous occasion to do this, one has not presented itself." He held out a ring. "I believe the correct thing to do in this circumstance is to ask if you would care to marry me. You are allowed to decline."

McCoy stared at Spock. Then at the ring. Then at Spock holding the ring. "I thought you didn't believe in human marriage?"

"Someone convinced me that love is compromise, Leonard. I believe that it is time I compromised." He realized only after he had said it that the word 'compromise' still did not seem particularly eager.

It appeared that Leonard noticed, too. "Spock," he said.

"Yes?"

"That was an inelegant proposal."

"I had noticed."

"Yes."

"You had noticed?"

McCoy rolled his eyes. "That too."

Spock cocked his head, and then his eyes widened. "You are saying yes to my proposal?"

"Of course I am!" McCoy exploded. "I wouldn't have pestered you for the last month just to turn you down, you damn fool Vulcan!"

"I see." Spock's mouth tugged into his tiny smile. "I believe this is the correct response."

He pulled McCoy into a kiss. The doctor contemplated the mess he was in. His mind was threatening to shatter at any moment, and he'd just agreed to marry Spock. The Vulcan was right: this was a strange time to spring such a thing on McCoy. The doctor understood, though.

Spock was a being who thrived on logic. It was the core of his existence and the cement that kept him from falling apart. That having been said, there were moments when all logic deserted him.

McCoy could deal with that.

THE END (for a while)

Note: Okay, the line from the beginning became the penultimate line, but I just felt it needed one more thing before the end. Sorry I didn't adhere to the challenge exactly in its guides.


End file.
